Ragnar lingered in the quiet room long after Circe had drifted into sleep. The soft glow of the lamp bathed her features in golden light, casting delicate shadows that softened the sharp lines so often etched into her face when she was awake.
For the first time in what felt like an eternity, there was no edge to her expression, no veil of suspicion drawn across her eyes, no tension coiled in her jaw, only the unguarded serenity of slumber.
A faint smile curved her lips as she slept, the kind that vanished too quickly in the daylight, especially when she was around him.
He could still smell the faint trace of wine that clung to her. It was honeyed, cloying, and deceptively sweet, the unmistakable scent of fae wine. The thought made his chest constrict harshly.
Someone in his household had deliberately put Circe in danger, and that thought burned like acid through his veins.
